


Love is love is love

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 03:44:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in love.Those moments are theirs.





	Love is love is love

*** * ***

_“I hope one day somebody loves you so much that they_

_do not waste their time trying to fix you.”_

_\- Trista Mateer_

*** * ***

You feel like the luckiest man in the world.

You wake up next to him and it’s like all winning numbers on your lottery ticket, it’s like bursting into bright laugher at the most unexpected time, it’s like pushing the door open and thinking with a smile _I’m home_. It’s his hair on the pillow, his hands on your hip, his breath against your skin. It’s knowing he’s right here, where you can reach for him, where you can feel him, _alive, breathtaking, yours_.

.

“I knew, that very first day. I knew.”

.

The fire is burning between them.

“There were times when I was certain we would never have this again,” Sherlock whispers, not sure if he actually meant to speak his thoughts but finding he does not mind.

There is a frown between John’s eyebrow, his eyes darting up from his cup and meeting Sherlock’s for a second, maybe two. He looks away. Sherlock allows himself to gaze at him just bit a longer, just a bit more.

“I think I-” John shakes his head, lick his lips, frowns again. Sherlock can’t seem to be able to look away. “I did too.”

A log cracks in the fireplace.

“There were times when I thought you’ll never want this again,” Sherlock continues in a murmur, not really seeing the point in stopping now.

John’s fingers tighten around his cup and Sherlock notes the quiet, sharp inhale through his nose. John is still looking at the fire. Sherlock finds himself hoping he’d meet his eyes again.

“Sherlock, there’s so much we- Christ.” John glances at him. Sherlock holds his stare for as long as he dares to. “You have to understand, have to know that I- There hasn’t been a single second where I didn’t want this.”

Sherlock knows for a fact the warmth spreading through his body has nothing to do with the fire.

They don’t look away.

John smiles.

.

Mornings have become his favorite moment of the day. John comes downstairs, eyes still full with sleep, his hair ruffled and with lingering traces of his pillows on his cheeks. John smiles at him in the morning, and _this_ smile is the reason Sherlock is always sitting at the kitchen table, looking up at exactly 6:05 every morning. This smile is the reason Sherlock’s heart misses a beat every morning. This smile is the reason Sherlock falls in love (again and again) every morning.

.

“Would you tell me?” John says one afternoon.

He’s not sure why he’s asking, why he chose this moment in particular, but Sherlock had played with Rosie all morning, and John feels like his heart could explode any seconds now.

“Tell you what?” Sherlock replies, eyes snapping up to look at him over the rim of his book.

John licks his lips, the finger stroking absently the armrest of his chair coming to a halt, “If this is too much.” He hesitates. “If this isn’t what you had imagined.”

The quiet sound of Sherlock closing his book echoes in the room.

“What I imagined?”

John repressed a smile and shakes his head, “You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock.”

They stare at each other, not saying a word, and for a moment John wonders if Sherlock has stopped breathing entirely. He flexes his hand into a fist, waiting and refusing to look away. Sherlock’s eyes are roaming all over his face now, and once more, John feels the same thrill at being under his focused stare. He could remain there for hours, letting Sherlock read on his face all the things he cannot speak out yet.

_Look at me, Sherlock._

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

“There is nothing to tell,” Sherlock declares, his voice barely a whisper.

John hides his relief as best as he can and smiles, and feeling as if he could either cry or laugh at any moment now.

“Isn’t it like _you_ had imagined?” Sherlock asks after another second.

John looks down at one of Rosie’s toys between their chair, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him and letting the words spill out, “It’s so much more than I’ve ever dared to imagine, Sherlock.”

.

It mostly happens at night. John wakes up panting, mouth open in a silent scream and his fingers grasping the sheets. His lungs are on fire for what seem an eternity as he forces himself to take back control over his pounding heart and spinning head. He can’t wake Sherlock. It can take up to fifteen minutes before he can breathe again, and then the bribes of his nightmare come back to him. The lost, the despair, the fear. He closes his eyes and forces away the image of Sherlock dying in his arms over and over again. John cries, silent tears running down his cheeks and an ache spreading throughout his entire body. He can’t wake Sherlock.

.

Sherlock wakes up just a little disoriented. He stares up at the ceiling, identifying the few marks here and there and suddenly feeling very much awake. His first instinct is to look at his right, heart stopping at the sight of a still asleep John Watson. Trying to calm his heart and breathing down, he makes a quick mental check of his state : clothed, no headache, a bandage of his right hand. None explaining why he finds himself in John’s bed in the middle of the day. He tries not to think of all the times he imagined such a scenario, not what could have happened to make it a reality.

“You’re awake.”

Sherlock holds his breath.

“Feeling better?”

John is smiling, all soft around the eyes.

“The doctor said you might not remember, I take it he was right.”

Sherlock nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He watches, just a little in awe, as John slides closer, one hand dangerously close now.

“I can fill you up on the details,” John says, whispering. “We were closing up on the drug case, the suspect was in his flat, alone, and so of course you went in before the police got here. Ring a bell?”

Sherlock shakes his head, desperately trying to recall any of it.

“Well, I followed and good thing I did because the suspect wasn’t alone. We fought them pretty good if you ask me, but you somehow inhale some bad stuff during the fight and were completely out of it after.” John glances down at his injured hand. “You did that to yourself on the way out.”

“I don’t…”

“It’s alright,” John says. “Beside, it’s not the most important.”

Something bright is now dancing in John’s eyes, making it hard for Sherlock to focus on anything else.

“You’ve talked a lot, mostly nonsense about the case or some experiment,” John continues, the hand between them playing with the sheet. “You’ve said some things about me too.”

Panic flows through Sherlock’s body, his every sense on alert and his breathing coming to an entire stop.

“No, no, don’t,” John says immediately, still so very soft. “Don’t worry, breathe, Sherlock, breathe.” John’s hand is around his wrist now, thumb stroking his skin. “Sherlock, it’s alright. More than alright even.”

“John…I…”

“You called me _my John_.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, heart sinking.

“You called me _my John_ and you held my hand as if you were afraid I would go away,” John continues, voice much closer now. “You held on to me so tightly, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock manages to say, voice broken.

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” John murmurs, his breath warm against Sherlock’s face. “Absolutely nothing, my Sherlock.”

Sherlock isn’t sure in which exact order it happens next, John smiling, his eyes opening, their fingers playing together and their lips meeting so very softly. But it’s alright because John kisses him a second time, and a third, and by the fourth, Sherlock has found back all of his mental faculty and begins to store away the feelings and sounds and sensations.

At least until John does something kind of wonderful with his tongue.

.

There is a mole on the inside of John’s elbow.

Among all of its entries, one of Sherlock’s first journal reads _February 4th 2010, right elbow, mole discovered after John exited the bathroom in his nightshirt, deep brown, average size, healthy, will need more data._ 72 more entries mention this particular irregularity on John’s skin over the next five years, only four of them adding details purely based on touch.

That first night, as John exhales loudly above him, Sherlock’s lips finds that spot over and over again.

.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Rosie, it’s him.”

Sherlock picks her up, listening to John’s footsteps in the stairs. It is still a bit strange, knowing he’s going to get a kiss as soon as John walks in, but he finds that he cannot wait.

“Daddy!”

Sherlock is waiting by door when it opens, John waking in with a bright smile on his lips and… flowers.

“Hello sweetheart,” John says, going to kiss Rosie softly on the head. “Hello love.”

Sherlock accepts the kiss with a soft sigh, leaning for another one when John pulls away. He remains close afterward, their nose almost brushing.

“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock whispers, having learned by now that he’s allowed to say such things.

“I’ve missed you too,” John murmurs back. “Oh, I’ve got you these.”

A whole lot of emotions crashes over him, making it just a bit harder to breathe properly or look at the bouquet without smiling like - surely - an idiot. He puts Rosie down without taking his eyes off the flowers.

“I hope it’s alright, I walked by the shop and saw them and thought I coul—”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts him. “They’re beautiful.”

John laughs quietly, handing him the bouquet. Sherlock stares some more, not exactly sure of what to do next.

“Let me get you a vase, we must have one somewhere.”

Sherlock is still staring at the flowers a full five minutes later when he remembers what he did with the vase a few years ago.

John laughs some more and kisses him, so Sherlock figures it’s alright.

.

Mornings are still Sherlock’s favorite part of the day, for different reasons now. If it is rare of for him to wake up after John, he learned to love those the most. There is a tangible moment, barely a few seconds, where the limit between dream and reality remains a bit blurry, where the feeling of John’s lips on his neck, kissing him softly, might as well be the continuation of his dream. Sherlock wishes he could linger in those moments, those few seconds where anything is a possibility. But then, with warm touches and whispered adorations, John fully wakes him up and, actually, this might be the best part of his morning.

.

Their first Valentine’s Day together goes completely unnoticed.

Sherlock spends the day sulking, the lack of a good case for the past week making even breathing unbearable. John doesn’t say anything. He cooks them lunch and eats alone, glancing at Sherlock’ figure on the sofa. He busies himself all afternoon, reading forty pages of his book, saving two drafts on his blog and changing their sheets to the deep navy ones.

Sherlock joins him for diner, and as their feet brush under the table, John accepts the silent apology.

Later that night, with Sherlock asleep in his arms and the sudden realisation of what day it is, John smiles and whispers into Sherlock’s dark curls, “I love you.”

.

“It was you. It will always be you.”

.

You feel like the luckiest man in the world.

You fall asleep next to him and it’s like blindly reaching for a hand next to you and finding it there, it’s like turning on the radio just when your favorite song is playing, it’s like the familiar smells of your childhood coming back to you. It’s his eyes fixed on you, his smile against your lips, his body warm and pliant. It’s knowing he’s right there, where you can reach for him, where you can feel him, _alive, breathtaking, yours._


End file.
